Atonement of Blood(75)

They all turned and looked at her in surprise.

‘But you said last night …’ began Conrí.

‘Oh, I made a speculation last night. I still think that speculation has to be followed. But if Adamrae’s purpose was to claim to be Prince of the Uí Fidgente, then he would surely be known to people here. To you, for example. He would have to be kin to Prince Donennach and his family, even as Donennach was cousin to Eoganán. He would be recognised even with the disguise he assumed.’

Conrí saw the point immediately. Succession of a noble to office had to be approved by a gathering of the derbhfine of a family, usually no more than three generations of the family of the last approved chieftain, petty king, or even High King. Therefore, one claiming the office had not only to be of the bloodline but approved by the electoral college called the derbhfine. In ideal circumstances this ensured that the most worthy member of the family held the office and that no one usurped it; thus inheritance by the eldest son or daughter was almost excluded.

‘You mean,’ Conrí said after a while, ‘we should consider which members of Donennach’s family are conspiring against him?’

‘It would be one way of approaching things,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘Well, then there are several people to consider. I know a farmer who is a cousin and even the master of the stables at Mungairit is a cousin to Prince Donennach,’ observed Socht cynically.

Conrí suddenly chuckled. ‘Not a likely choice of succession. Twenty years or more working in the stables of an abbey suddenly to be elevated to Prince of the Uí Fidgente is too far-fetched. I, too, must be a prime suspect. I am also a cousin, albeit distant. How else could I have become warlord of the Uí Fidgente?’

‘I had forgotten the obvious, Conrí,’ Fidelma sighed.

‘That is unlike you, lady,’ replied Conrí, amused. ‘But I am afraid you would have too many suspects to contend with if you are looking just for relatives of Eoganán. Even old Abbot Nannid is uncle to Donennach. The descendants of the Uí Fidgente Princes are many, lady.’

‘However, you have made me recall another obvious thing that you said yesterday.’

‘Which was?’

‘You pointed out that the Ford of Oaks is a crossing which many merchants often use.’

‘That is so. Further along the track to the west is a large inn that caters for the merchants; they can rest there and keep their wagons and animals safe. You are returning to the idea that Adamrae was a brigand, planning a raid on the merchants who pass through here?’

‘I had almost forgotten the visits he made to the inn.’ Fidelma turned to Socht. ‘You did say that Adamrae visited it several times?’

‘I did. The inn is run by Sitae.’

‘Then let us go and speak with the inn-keeper.’

‘I’ll take you there,’ Conrí offered. ‘It is just a short walk.’

The square was now bustling with people, some of whom saluted Conrí in elaborate fashion while others passed with a nod or courteous greeting.

Conrí was correct in that the inn of Sitae was just a short walk along the roadway to the edge of the settlement. It was a fairly large construction with a paddock in which several horses were enclosed – strong muscular beasts better suited to pulling wagons rather than carrying warriors or nobles. There was also an area in which a number of wagons were parked, many of them with a canvas cloth, called a bréit, covering them to protect whatever goods they held. Outside the building was a pole on which an unlit lantern hung. It was the duty of the inn-keeper to light this when darkness fell so that travellers could recognise the place as an inn.

Conrí led the way to the main doors, but before they reached them, the doors were flung open and a short, portly man with unkempt white hair and flushed features seemed to bounce out to greet them. He was light on his feet and his movements were almost comically dramatic. To imagine him in any other role than mine host would be hard.

‘This is Sitae the inn-keeper,’ Conrí announced as the man approached them.

‘My lord, welcome; my lady, welcome, welcome.’ He almost made obeisance to Fidelma, bobbing up and down as he spoke. Obviously the news of her arrival in the settlement had spread. ‘But why are you on foot? The road is muddy after the rains yesterday and you will ruin your pretty shoes. Come in, come into the dry, I entreat you.’

Like a mother hen, the inn-keeper seemed to cluck as he marshalled them to enter his establishment and bade them be seated before a fire. Fidelma felt an overpowering impulse to tell him to stay still, for the man, in addition to moving his head up and down, had a disconcerting habit of stepping from side to side with tiny little movements as if performing some curious dance.